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Rambert History
Rambert is the youngest of three brothers born to Angus Garnock, captain of The Headman's Folly, a small trading ship that plied the waters between Yröd and Chalter Medrium. Angus tried his hand at many trades before settling down to a sailor's life, and during his journeys he met, wooed, and won Elsbeth Sankt, the daughter of a Demekrian merchant. Despite their vast cultural differences, the two The clan Garnock is a lowland trading clan (mainly made up of the four sons of old Wylin Garnock and their families), running ships across the way to Chalter Medrium. Rambert's oldest brother, Osbert, set up an inn on the Chalter Medrian coast, The End of the World; his middle brother, Cuthbert, is a mercenary. Rambert and his brothers left Gherin Culloch and the clan business because trade simply was not keeping up, and with competition growing ever more fierce, their chances for profit were dwindling. The Garnock clan has always had tenuous relations with the Camgialls. Old Wylin was never keen on paying tariffs, but also knew better than to cross the most powerful clan on the Isles, so kept up good appearances with them but was never more than cordial, and that lukewarm cordiality was returned. They are good friends and companions of the Kavanagh Clan, who supply much of the cloth for their sails and trade. The real enemies of the Garnocks has always been the Thorcaill Clan, who also run trade out of Yröd. Their operations are slipshod at best, but they undercut the Garnock trade nonetheless. Their rivalry was only just short of a blood feud. This made Rambert's secret romance with Aithne Thorcaill all the more problematic. They were both in their teens, but their passion was such that they could not resist one another. They managed to keep their liaison secret for nearly a year, but when it was discovered that Aithne was in a family way, the whole story came out. Rambert left Gherin Culloch as much to escape the undoubted wrath of the clan head Deverell Thorcaill as to seek his fortune. Sadly, he has never discovered what became of Aithne, and is a bit afraid to find out. Rambert has knocked about the continent for the past score of years, ending up doing jobs of one kind and another in many towns in many countries. He's not above fibbing about his past to make an interesting story, and he always feels compelled to add some personal note about how he learned a tale or song. He has spent time gathering mages' reagents in Karandia (making a friend of the minor wizard Angin Undosian in the process); passed time learning and teaching tales in Orenvale (if only hobbit women were of a different stature, he might have stayed); did some lumbering in Akkoria and actually joined the Navy for a very brief stint (his sudden and unannounced departure two weeks after joining has earned him the enmity of his commanding officer, Adiron Jadoch); and spent some fair amount of time in Quivera, DeMekrium, and Irroquin. His doings keep him in ale and company, though he occasionally runs afoul of the law for minor issues. Rambert carries a blade but is not particularly skilled with it. He doesn't have much truck with such niceties as honor, courage, and the rest, though he's basically good-hearted and a soft touch for those in trouble. He affects a very gruff and worldly demeanor with a devil-may-care attitude, but he hates to see injustice done and will strike a blow for the little guy when he can (though that blow is more likely to be a waylay from behind than an open challenge to a duel). He mocks and distrusts authority of any kind, believes there's no such thing as a good ruler, and is rather utilitarian in his views, though he has a deep respect for magik and the forces of nature. Along his path he has made many brief friends and many small enemies, but has not formed many lasting bonds, save with his brothers. He has angered a few powerful people in the lands he's passed through: for instance, in April of 509, he was playing The Slug and Lettuce tavern in Old Town; seeing a pretty young thing flirting with him, he sang some bawdy ballads for her entertainment and did a bit of innocent dancing. How was he to know this was Ilyathia Ferran, daughter of the powerful Ildas Ferran who was meeting with his guild contacts in a back room? A rather burly bodyguard, some off-duty members of the City Watch, and the eventual brawl that resulted broke up that meeting and landed Rambert in prison for a couple of weeks. Thankfully, his persuasive powers got him back out rather faster than was planned and he is holing up in the Foreign Quarter until things cool down a bit further. § 26 May 509— The Pick and Chisel doesn't look to be a prospect—too many bloody guildsmen with no ear for a song or story, too much politics, and too many bar brawls. And now there seems to be some shortage of provender; many a place has its doors shuttered, and others only offering the swill from the bottom of the barrels and the scrapings of yesterday's meals. I haven't had any vittles for a day and a half, so even that is starting to sound appetizing. On the bright side, the Watch seems too busy to worry about me; haven't seen a guardsman just walking the streets for nigh on a week. Big things must be afoot; tension is thick, though I can't quite discover why. After two years clean-shaven, I'm letting the beard make his triumphal return. I've missed the old fellow. Didn't get a proper shave in the cells, and decided for appearance's sake (that is, trying to change it) to let the privet hedge come back in his glory. I just hope the taverns 'round here will still let me in their doors. § 23 May 509— I's got to get out of this rathole; the innkeep seems intent on stiffing me for what little we had agreed to, and I can't take many more flea bites. Plus, the patrons of this establishment have no taste for real entertainment. I been scouting out inns in the Foreign Quarter, hoping to find someplace as has a better class of customer and fewer vermin. So far, I've not had much luck, though a place called the Pick and Chisel has some promise from the looks of the traffic. They're cleaning one o' the big gates in the city; they tell me there might be some nobby wedding going on. I doubt in my current state anyone would take me on as a minstrel for that kind of affair, which is a shame and a half. Things is not going as well as I might have hoped on my current visit to Kessid, I must admit. Of course, she used this as an excuse to push me once again. I reminded her that it were her doing I was here in the first place; I would have stayed in Kura'Stan, given my druthers. But apparently getting me clapped in irons and then hiding in the gutters was a better plan. I told her it were my choice to find a better spot, thank you, and she could stuff it. She never listens, anyway. § 20 May 509— Through friendliness and a quick tongue, I've found a spot at Mal Kar's Head—and if the Mal Kar ever set his head here, he'd most like come away with a hatful of lice. Enough of a garret to almost lie down in, and enough ale to polish half a copper. Still, it mostly keeps the rain out and is more welcoming than a gutter, if only because the refuse here can be conned out of their coin. Much talk here is about Dominians and some great bloody ships in the harbor. Bigger than they usually see, at any rate. Never had much truck with Dominians—lots of clans in the south deal with them, but we never had any doings with 'em. They seem like stuffed shirts in fancy armor, and have all the sense of humor of a whelk. Still, it might be interesting to discover what they're up to; someone might pay for that kind of information. § 18 May 509— Finding a decent hiding place in this town is like finding a diamond in a pile of coal: it would shine out like the blazes, but it's phenomenally unlikely that you'll run across it. Flophouses, ale-stalls, rotgut cellars—they're all to be had, and they'll do for now. But trying to sleep whilst fleas make their home in ye is a trial; add in the fun of sleeping with one eye open for cadgers and deft-hands and it's an utter riot. Low Town is no place to live, I'll tell ye that much. § 17 May 509— It's a fine thing to be back among the living, though a little dodgy in this city these days. There's something in the air—things ain't quite right. Still, they'll be righter when I finds a place to rest a bit more comfortable; this shanty may be enough for sailors sleeping off a drunk, but I like something softer beneath my head. But I can't complain, all told. Aetherin proved just the lad I thought. He brought us a bottle of very bad wine (probably taken from his old dad's shelf) and sat with me to hear the tale of Anghelm and Tebriniel, and after a few cups and a few words, he was fast asleep, and I was fast away. Locked him back in for safekeeping. Now I just need a safe place to hole up for a while; I have a feeling the gates will be watched for a bit, and I doesn't need that kind of trouble. Again. Since nobody came for me during my stay in clink, I shouldn't think there were real charges pressed; didn't do nothing untoward, anyway. But best to play it safe, eh? § 14 May 509— Got a little view of Kessid "justice" yesterday. Not three hours after penning that last entry, the same ponce I saw pushing the beggar was dropped into the cell next, beaten black and blue. As I might have guessed from his very fine hat and pompous bearing, he was Galluran—and even with all that finery, it turned out he was a mere quill pusher in the employ of some nobby wine merchant. Apparently, them rumors about the Beggar's Guild ain't exaggeration; poor sod said he was surrounded by ragged children and whalloped. He didn't seem to appreciate my humor on the subject. The world is full of fools. His nobby pals must've gotten him out again, 'cause he weren't there this morning. Two more nights and I should be leaving this hole. I hope the lad don't get too much grief. § 13 May 509— As I suspected, Atherin proved to be more eager for stories than wary of prisoners. He's positively my own page now, as long as the other guards aren't watching. It shouldn't be long now. The singing lad is named Maoilis (at least, that's how I imagine it's spelled), and glory be, he's half elven, poor sod. He don't know many songs, but he takes to teaching fine enough (though Travers gives us the stink eye if we's singing when he comes around. He don't like my rendition of "The Traitorous Guardsman," either). Bunged in clink because of some overzealous celebrating at the word of Volek's death, though he's fair close-lipped on why that should please him so. His mates were the rowdy ones, from what he tells, and he only the slow one what got caught. Lots astir here on the news from Gesnor. That, and a lot of folks lining up to buy Elven property, from what I hear. Must be nice to have that kind of coin. Through my little grating, I caught sight of some ponce pushing a beggar into the gutter. As I already said, damn fine place, is Kessid. § 10 May 509— When the guards came 'round last evening, they floated in the grub under the door and made a wee joke about having plenty to drink. I replied very kindly--something about at least getting a bath, unlike some--and was rewarded later in the night by someone pissing through the grating of my door into the muck. Always a touch of class in Kessid. I put on my friendly face this morn, though, and asked after Atherin's mum. The lad's only just getting his beard and has a friendlier eye than the others. He brought me a few of my personal effects for the price of a tale, and I'm fair certain that in a few days I can make him my confidant. Better than Travers, at any rate: I've a strong suspicion it's his doings that are swirling around in the filth draining out of the cell. The lad across the way has a good voice; he's singing something in Elvish, far as I can make out (which aren't far, to be certain). He's just been brought in--at least I may have some civilized converse soon. § 9 May 509— There may be worse places to spend a wet, miserable, donkey-pissing night such as this than a prison cell, but bugger me if I can think of one. The water's up to my calves, and a rat just floated by, either dead or in a very bad way. Bloody hell. Back to Character Sheet